


Bet Your Damn Pants Off

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Nakamaru's Step By Step pants, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2019-02-14 19:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13014729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: Ueda wins a bet and wants Nakamaru in his pants… literally.





	Bet Your Damn Pants Off

Ueda rarely bets on anything. (It’s just impossible to lift the odds in his own favour, first of all).  
  
Fact of the matter, when he’d agreed to this one particular bet, it had been more out of an aggravation than any actual odds.  
  
There are so few things that aggravate him too.  
  
To start off with, he’d been deeply in regret agreeing to let one highly enthused Maru watch the finale of the women’s football world cup on his plasma TV. Not just because Ueda had little to zero interest in the concept but because aforementioned finale was scheduled at what Maru had claimed was nine in the morning when in reality-- after a quick timezone conversion-- turned out to be at  _four_  in the morning.  
  
Not that he’d ever be idiot enough to come out and say so, but when he imagined Maru turning up at his door in the middle of the night, it’d be sport-related maybe, but certainly not football.  
  
(Come to think of it, there was that one night-- they never talk about-- when a very harried Maru stood in his doorway desperately muttering the very easily misconstrued phrase, “I need to sleep with you.”)  
  
That is beside the point. That didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes Maru sleeps over for completely platonic reasons. Ueda is over it.  
  
So Maru was at his house a little past four-thirty a.m. rushing past him out of the genkan, kicking off his sneakers, the frantic words, “it’s starting; it’s starting; it’s starting!” spilling from his lips as he dropped his jacket and keys on the counter, switched on the TV and huddled comfortably in Ueda’s sofa.  
  
Now of course, Ueda would later fail to mention how he hadn’t really been watching the actual match nor paying any attention really to Maru’s random smattering of football jargon. He had been sitting on the other end of the couch, streaming between the conscious world of viewing Maru poised on the edge of his seat and dozing into a sleep world of Maru switching off the television, leaning over with that smile he gets: the one that would serve as a precursor for any special somatic designs…  
  
Whatever it was, he was startled awake by Maru’s shouting at the screen. Ueda could’ve taken an orifice to the steam measurements coming off of Maru as he bounced a bit on the sofa cushions, slender-sharp fingers curved over his own knees, braced with tensed muscled thighs leaning toward the screen. His lips were even parted mid-cry in a moment of sheer bated calm. Since when did sport-viewing become this indecent?  
  
Ueda wanted so much to jump him to the point of hatred.  
  
Ueda doesn’t remember precisely what Maru was shouting, but being startled awake by a delectable vision he couldn’t go near made him feel contrary and naturally testy. He only knows he snapped something vicious along the lines of, “Quit shrieking like you’re the be-all on women’s sports!”  
  
Maru’s turn on him was pretty sharp and startling in all the ways Maru is quiet and narrow-eyed when he takes offense. Not even looking back, Maru’s thumb descends on the mute button. “Wanna bet I’m right?” he’d queried, cold tone freezing the breath Ueda took next.  
  
Ueda still doesn’t know what he was talking about, but when something scares him, it makes him all the more angry. He had sat up. “If I win, you’re paying for waking me up at this hour for this!”  
  
“You’re  _on_!” Maru had replied quite bitingly. “If I win, your ass is mine…” He’d turned back to the television swiftly, flicking the volume to drown out the silent, competitive tension now screaming between them.  
  
Ueda wasn’t sure what he’d just bet against; he found it hard in his sleep-addled state to try and work that out. Most of all he found himself thinking  _Does he hear himself when he says things like that?_  with incredulity.  
  
The uncomfortable ambiguity of Maru claiming Ueda’s ass aside, twenty minutes later Maru’s upright, self-assured posture deflated. That’s how Ueda knew he won. (Whatever it was.) It was still early, too early to do any gloat-fuelled dancing. He had smiled. Lawyers didn’t get that smug. Maru had sighed and gazed at him with such delicious, narrow-eyed trepidation.  
  
For all records of understanding, Ueda had never truly identified as a sadist. He just often felt a trill of glee when particular people looked at him that way. Namely Maru.  
  
  
The punishment (because money just seemed like such a minor thing next to the possibilities sitting in front him) hit him when Maru got up to leave, comfortable corduroys dragging up against the fricative texture of the sofa, tightening around his upper thighs. Oh…Ueda was quite beyond help.  
  
“Well, what’s the verdict?” Maru had asked a bit haplessly.  
  
“You’ve got a Shounen Club Performance coming up, don’t you?” Ueda only returned musingly.  
  
  
  
Finding the right article of clothing was more about the potential hilarity of watching Maru trying to argue his way out of wearing them. The roar of his panicked tones, sulky gestures and the endearing way he would cry, “Ueda!” in a would-be patriarchal timbre.  
  
The pants date back to January of 2004. A distant, inexplicable time. Homemade. Polyblend textile tossed in a plastic tub of glitter and fabric adhesive, later laminated to the point that the embarrassing shine was permanent. Ueda used to be into that kind of thing. Now he finds it folded in a trunk full of suspiciously pointy jewellery and expensive t-shirts with the sleeves cut off.  
  
He prefers not to address that period of his life.  
  
_Now_ , these are just a pair of pants he thinks would look  _interesting_  on the most understated man in the history of sequin-wearing idol groups.  
  
Ueda holds them up, fingers fisted into the limp belt loops. They’ve got to be a size twenty-four waist with a twenty-six length and twenty-two inseam.  _Tight_.  
  
He hasn’t worn them nor tried them on since that time, but he does entertain the mental image of Maru trying to get into them or even Ueda himself having to help him into them. Insert something of a struggle there and well, he can pretty much take that to bedtime.  
  
  
  
He hears Maru has his Shounen Club appearance rehearsal the following Saturday. Ueda doesn’t much like visiting most old junior-day haunts with the NHK Shounen Club theatre being one of them. He wears his shades in through the doors for the calm it offers him. Seeing everything in sepia changes his stressors significantly. Maru’s expression when he opens his dressing room door to greet Ueda is unreadable. “You know, rehearsal just ended,” he states.  
  
He didn’t know. Ueda hands him the paper bag with the pants neatly folded within. “Oh well, I brought you something,” is his equable reply.  
  
Maru steps backward into the room. He gestures for Ueda to come in as he parts the opening of the bag and looks in, dart-like eyebrows all scrunched with concern, confusion, whatever. The contents  _are_  cause for concern. “What...” He doesn’t finish. Ueda’s pretty certain he sees a flicker of recognition make a brief appearance.  
  
“Right,” Ueda gestures a bit aimlessly. “So those are the ones I picked.”  
  
Maru sets the bag on his makeup counter, turning; resting his hands on his hips. He’s still wearing his performance clothes. Something with a lot of white, pale grey scarf and moderately cut white jeans. He speaks succinctly. “Why these, then?”  
  
There are a lot of persuasive powers on this planet, but none of them are gonna make Ueda admit  _why_  on this count. “Just put ‘em on. I won the bet; you wear them. That was the deal.”  
  
The dressing room is pretty cramped to begin with, so Maru taking that single step toward him makes Ueda recoil involuntarily. “Ueda,” he says, not appearing to have noticed Ueda’s abrupt violent reaction. “I can’t just go up on stage tomorrow with those on.”  
  
Ueda, keeping his hands steady, adjusts his sunglasses. Ueda is aware that Maru has long become accustomed to looking him deep in the eye even through a thin, tinted separation. It makes him glare when he says, “Put. Them. On.”  
  
“What’s with that tone?” Maru queries a bit tonelessly. “You want me to put them on now?”  
  
Ueda glances at the clock. “Rehearsal’s done; you’ve got nothing else to do today, do you?”  
  
“That has nothing to do with it, I-”  
  
“You know if it isn’t this, then I’m only going to come up with something even worse.”  
  
Maru sighs, running his fingers thoughtfully over his jaw. “You’re impossible,” he simply says. There’s a sigh and a deep fuzz of affection in it. Ueda wants an immediate cure for the flush that runs up his chest to his ears. Maru doesn’t notice as he sidesteps back to the counter, tipping the bag to glance in again. “You know I remember these…it just makes me think of a twenty-two year old you.”  
  
Pre-debut. Ueda’s crush back then had been a distant, underwater drum beat. He couldn’t feel it then. He feels it now, though.  _Deeply_.  
  
Ueda could be choking on the curious fondness in Maru’s gaze. His skin just seems to respond to the odd flex of Maru’s throat, the swell of his chest as he stares back at Ueda so thoughtfully. Ueda starts forward to take the bag from Maru. “Forget it then, I’ll come up with something else…something even more severe, you’ll--”  
  
As he reaches forward, Maru doesn’t touch him, but he does step into a space defeating any distance between them, all dour and dismissive. “What? No, it’s a bet; I lost; I’ll wear them. That’s the deal.”  
  
Ueda backs into the counter.  
  
“Since they’re  _your_  pants, though, you’ll have to be the judge.”  
  
“Judge for what?” His voice won’t even come out normally anymore.  
  
“You see how flashy these things look. Like I said, rehearsal’s over and the theatre will be empty. You’re going to let me know honestly if I can wear these on national television.”  
  
  
  
The last time Ueda sat in one of these theatre seats, it had been during his junior days. Empty like this, it dwarfs Ueda with its sheer size. Maru was right when he’d said no one would be around. He would know; having been part of the show for so long. The front entrance doors are locked and the long stretch of red fold-up chairs and black vinyl runners seem eternal and clean.  
  
The thick, scarlet curtains onstage are shut, shielding the usually lit set and when he folds down the front row middle, the chair makes an echoing squeak. The massive room smells like polished plastic and the faint traces of chemical sweetness from a smoke machine. Ueda stares at the heavy curtains; the near eerie way they lick against the stage floor in slow air conditioned breeze patterns.  
  
It’s so noiseless but for faint muted noises from rooms far away now. Even his deep, nervous breaths are faint shimmers in the dense air. He almost doesn’t notice when the curtains part to admit one Maru.  
  
“Well?” he only says.  
  
Ueda forgets to inhale.  
  
So, all right, he had been expecting this. And yet, not really. The only thing he’d really registered upon looking at the pants in his hands was that they’d be just  _tight_. What stills him in his seat, though, is the way the pant line just  _cleaves_ up Maru’s thighs, visually-invasive shine cloying to the dim stage lights. Maru turns, fingers still curled in the heavy velvet curtains, one leg tentatively poised forward and the way the cut from the waist of those pants downward just  _hugs_  the shape of Maru’s ass could be a sculptural ode to curve perfection.  
  
There’s a silence too long for anything natural before Ueda realises he’s curled his fingers far too tightly around his arm rests.  
  
“You’re not saying anything,” Maru says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the acoustics of their privacy shudder downward to where Ueda sits. He reaches up and slips his shades off and the colour and cool air over his eyes adds to the blow. Maru’s thumb traces the line of the curtain as he blinks down curiously at Ueda. These are details he can’t help noticing. He gazes in a wordless state at the button-up Maru is wearing, having been left untucked--shifts when he moves. The pants themselves around his pelvis seem like a world of exciting crinkled folds. Just near Maru’s inseam, the part of his thin, round thighs and a brash dip where it kisses his knees.  
  
Ueda knows the texture of those pants by heart. It seems suddenly obscene that he imagines retracing its contours, dipping his hands in pockets near impossible to get into.  
  
“They’re…fine.” Ueda feels his avoidance of the appropriate adjectives will save him any more pain. Just being able to look is fine. He’ll only ever be able to  _look_ …  
  
Maru drops his hands from the curtains and places them on his hips. He looks suddenly quite astringent. “Well, I know it’s just a bet, but it’s still disheartening to come out here like this and have you say it’s just  _fine_.”  
  
Ueda’s palms are clammy and his knuckles are white. He shouldn’t have taken off his shades. Sepia is calming; sepia doesn’t emphasise the colour of skin or the deep black of Maru’s eyes staring down from above him.  
  
The sound Maru makes next is an amused, soft huff of laughter. “I’m concerned with how they hit the lighting. Imagine they’ll be brighter than this.” He does an abrupt twist, a very archetypal dance move of one arm flying up and legs parting, loose shirt wafting upward, baring vulnerable thin hips. “I can deal with this as long as they don’t seem too flashy. Are you even looking?”  
  
Ueda settles back in his seat, hearing the groaning creak of it, hinges grinding. “Of course I’m looking,” he mumbles.  
  
Maru goes quiet, watching him. The air conditioning fans kick in on some timer suddenly humming a faint monotone. They can both hear the shouts and chatter in rooms so far off. They’re just way too alone in here.  
  
“Of course you’re looking,” Maru echoes finally. He steps to the very edge of the stage and looks defeated with some trepidation for the shortest moment before he slips down, dangling his legs over the edge of the stage, fingers curled into the wooden lip of it. He drops down on the thin rug, dusting off his palms as he meets Ueda’s gaze. Ueda can see the bob of his throat as he approaches because it’s all he can focus on without letting his eyes trail down to the twist of Maru’s hips. “I like it that you look.”  
  
He says it in this searing tone and it tastes like something so rashly truthful. Undistracted in this rare moment. Nothing to do. No television. No one but Ueda. It almost feels unfair that Ueda can’t speak and inject that much in what he says, that without effort, Maru can look so directly at him. Say things. Drive Ueda wild.  
  
Maru steps up close and Ueda is still looking up at him just completely unable to move. It’s mostly the idea that it’s just the two of them in this large, empty room surrounded by cool air and phantom noises of crowd cries and chorus moments. This room breathes their history while ringing with the newness of Maru’s statement. Of how the both of them are so close, Maru massaging the back of his own neck in a would-be casual conventionality.  
  
Ueda doesn’t look up at him; doesn’t want to read those narrow eyes boring a message at him. He only stares a little blurrily at the glaring glint of those pants. Those damn pants orchestrating a world of complicated. His fists over his arm rests loosen as he hears Maru begin to sigh, approach the end of this attempt.  
  
“I don’t just want to look,” Ueda says quietly, and he finally raises his eyes. Gets a good look at Maru’s tentative, but defiant stare. “As if I could spend my whole life just watching you, as if that’d be enough...”  
  
The zipper fold of the pants on Maru seems almost braced over the untouchable, and yet forbidden things are so best accentuated. Ueda reaches out; bravest thing he’s ever done, palms against the curve of Maru’s pelvis, thumbs brushing downward over a finely tuned, sharp bone on either side. He hears Maru’s breath stop, freeze, but not move.  
  
“What…would be enough?” Maru is blunt like this; no pretentions or uncertainties; just blunt. It’s a faint movement but under Ueda’s hands, he feels how he leans into the touch, muscles of his waist flexing right into Ueda’s palms.  
  
There’s something tender and naked about the paper thin touch of the fabric beneath his fingertips, makes Ueda want it under his lips. He leans forward, nose right against the seam of something growing harder, lip pressure against the bulge rising, breath ricocheting back at him in a sudden invasive warmth. “I don’t know; I don’t know,” he sighs helplessly, but he’s scared, thrilled, confused.  _He’s touching him_.  
  
He starts when careful, delicate fingers brush up his jaw and he blinks up a little wetly--not tears; no  _way_ ; only relief;  _just_  relief—as those same fingers wind into the longer strands of his hair. “Let’s just find out, ok? How much is enough…”  
  
The heel of Ueda’s right palm glides back to cup Maru’s buttocks while his left hand reaches to the belt loop to pull him closer, lips still parted over the bulge, forming to the shape of it. He tastes the hard fabric, laminated threads under the uncertain dip of his tongue, mixed with the earthy, real scent of Maru. Ueda’s trembling because of the steel moment they’re in. Alone where crowds have been, trying to be quiet where screams constantly shake the roof.  
  
Front row; center. Maru bends, resting his knee beside Ueda’s thigh. He’s startled by the industriousness in Maru’s voice, full lips against his cheek, butterfly-wing eyelashes brushing over his own closed lids. “I thought all along you’d only ever watch.”  
  
When their lips meet, it’s on the thread tassels of Ueda’s bitter, surprised laugh. “You’re so dumb,” he murmurs breathlessly between the glance of their kisses. He grips Maru’s hips, loving the feel of the tense fabric making way for each protest of Maru’s angles. Maru focuses on keeping his balance while exploring the inside of Ueda’s mouth, tipping his tongue in a strangely thrilling glide over Ueda’s.  
  
With Maru bent over him like that and the seat creaking with his added weight, Ueda only has the mobility to hang on tight and open his mouth under Maru. His fingertips dip into those against-the-skin back pockets, digging deep to get by the tight resistance, orchestrating a bit of a shocked moan from Maru.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Maru keeps trying to say, groaning it into his mouth. Ueda’s only thinking that he wants this to keep going, but he’s not entirely sure they can. Oh, it’s not an issue at all of his own need. Maru moves his thigh to spread Ueda’s legs and that’s more than enough for him to slide his fingers up under Maru’s loose shirt, touch the delineation of his quivering figure, pert nipples, softness of his stomach, all of it hot and heaving.  
  
There are only odd thrill reactions as Maru’s hips writhe in his hands; the doubled heat of the line where fabric and waist meet; the cold touch of the buttons against his knuckles.  
  
Ueda stops caring about technicalities and just reaches in, letting the button unsnap as he brushes over a trail of curls, being the parallel for Maru’s low growl right over his lower lip. The knife-like metamorphosis in Maru’s grip startles Ueda just then. Perhaps in the way Maru automatically reaches down and starts to rip at Ueda’s belt, sharp fingers grazing a place most aching shatters their long-time illusion of separation.  
  
Maru presses his forehead right against the back of the seat; Ueda leans back with him, the entire empty theatre riveted by the sound of those old un-oiled gears grinding together. It’s the silence that makes Ueda arch and try to slide out when Maru gets his pants open, getting a full hold on him, a certain grip. “I don’t think we can—“ He stops for a second, certain the sound he’s about to make isn’t going to have any consonants. “Nn…not here. What if someone—“  
  
“No one will come,” is hissed against his neck. “Trust me.”  
  
It’s more shocking that Ueda does. Trust him. Would. For anything.  
  
He can’t make the words once Maru uses his right thigh to sneak under his leg, raise it and curl him tightly in, only leaning back to bite a little at Ueda’s lips, a breathless question that sounds like a muffled version of, “Can I?” right over his wet, darting tongue. And Ueda nods, eyes shut while Maru curves his palm around his bulge through the fabric of his underwear. The chair groans while Maru makes delirious sounds into Ueda’s mouth.  
  
“Wanted this…” Maru whispers, the stretch of his pants brushing the softer textile of Ueda’s jeans, right along his crotch. He knows now the pressure of Maru’s cock, a rock hard counterattack against Ueda’s. “Wanted you; so long I wanted…” An exquisite ache and the feel of Maru’s racing heartbeat thundering like an avalanche shaking his ribcage.  
  
“Mm…me too,” Ueda mumbles, fingers deeply involved in the now messy silk of Maru’s dark brown hair.  
  
When he feels a strong, slender hand fist over the back of his belt, tug downward, he cants upward. They’re hip to hip as Ueda’s jeans scrape down his thighs, whole body coiling toward invasive fingers running along the curve of his ass, lick at his thighs in an intensity that feels like deranged adulation. Some distant logical part of him is kicking off his boots with each tug of Maru’s fingers against his loose cuffs.  
  
“I don’t have—“ he starts to say as Maru pulls his other leg around his waist and balances over him, thighs against the arm rests. It almost hurts, cramped into this fold-up chair, but it only presses them closer. “Do you…”  
  
Maru takes a bit of mean nibble at his collarbone. “Got it,” he breathes, removing his hand from Ueda’s knee to fiddle in his shirt pocket and the crackling noise makes Ueda lean back in some amazement at Maru now fiddling with a “single-serving” packet of lubricant.  
  
“How did you…”He isn’t sure how to word it. It shouldn’t matter considering he’s naked from the waist down, legs practically to his chest on a chair that wants to fold them up, but this is just really nutty.  
  
The smile he gets for that is breathless, the type of languid and uncertain tousled that made him start glancing at Maru a little extra. “Like I said, I’ve seen you looking. I guess I lied when I said I figured that was all you wanted.”  
  
Ueda has learned a new type of incredulity today.  
  
Maru looks a little taken with whatever he sees in Ueda’s expression. “I had hopes for us…sorry.”  
  
He hadn’t quite considered it when they first kissed a moment ago, but Maru tastes quite a bit like a fruit lozenge. It’s such an odd realisation in the middle of all this, but it warms him in a way Ueda will never quite voice. Now Ueda leans forward and savours it, and the way things don’t feel so shaking helpless, held up like this, covered by Maru’s body. “You jerk, you’re not sorry,” he says with a careful imperious tone of his own.  
  
Maru bites and tears at the corner of the packet, shifting himself so Ueda cries a little for the stretch of his thigh muscles. “No… I’m not.” The thick, water-based lubricant pools in the cup of Maru’s fingers. “Grab the back of the seat,” comes the abrupt order.  
  
Ueda throws his arms back just as Maru straightens, sliding his hand downward, pressing to his rim with a single finger. Ueda’s heart, having slowed, darts up again. His triceps feel strained as he pulls himself upward. “Am I supposed to feel uneasy about the f-fact that you really—“He sucks in a breath when Maru twists in, making an insistent half-circle with his fingertip. “—really seem to know how this works.”  
  
He’s bestowed with a distracted half-smile. “Well, from the looks of this, I’m not exactly taking your virtue, am I?” He presses in again and Ueda waits, the thrilling pain, between the lovely ilks of his calves against Maru’s torso, unease of it taking a moment to break into a delicious pattern.  
  
Maru’s middle finger joins his index and Ueda shuts his eyes, but persists. “I meant in this chair,  _Nakamaru_ …”  
  
He feels hot lips drift over the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t the faintest how this chair will hold us up.” Ueda loves that secretive, amused tone, but he nips at Maru’s jaw artfully, admonition and elation. “I’ve no excuses ready for if it breaks. Technically, we were never here…”  
  
The elastic touch of Maru’s hot silk fingers inside him curl upward and Ueda’s cock twitches in a divine reaction. He forgets what they were talking about for an electric, vibrant second, bites his lip and hikes himself up further. He makes an embarrassingly loud mewl at the second touch of it.  
  
It sings like some cue between them. Ueda grips the back of the chair even harder as Maru slips his other hand into his shirt pocket. Another packet, but Ueda can’t focus through the glaze of glory blinding him, waiting, wanting. He watches the flood of stilted ecstasy cross Maru’s features as the condom goes on. Before he pushes in, his palm curls over Ueda’s cock, sending a shrieking fire of a nearing end through his veins.  
  
It’s all he can do not to explode right then, the high-pitched squeak of the seat beneath them. The both of them begin their rocking dance. Maru’s eyes slide shut, lip caught between his teeth as he undulates in, a fluid grind with each thrust. He conquers it like a thirst and Ueda peppers their gasps against each other with deep, cadent moans he can’t control. He loves the touch of Maru’s palms on the backs of his knees, loves the hard press of him inside, the vaporous seconds of their bodies heaving in sync.  
  
In a strange fit of control, Maru opens his eyes and cups Ueda suddenly right along his jaw—“ _look at me_ ” — Ueda forces his eyes open. They gaze at each other, deep, cynical brown to wide, poetic brown and Maru winds inward, quickening his pace. It’s the push and the shift in angle, so forceful that presses the head of Maru’s cock right against a pad inside Ueda that responds with a tickling thrill before it blooms a powerful vein of rhapsody right up his stomach. He wails a little just as Maru whispers, “Come.”  
  
It takes a brief minute, tormenting ram of Maru in him, the stretch so constant now even tighter as Maru has to bring his arms down to hold Ueda’s ass at an appropriate angle to coax it out of both of them. When Ueda comes, he can’t even make a sound. His knees lock inward of their own volition; his arms protest as he helplessly hikes himself up further to make a touch that would be forever in a second. It shudders out of him and into Maru as he growls his deepest, still thrusting, eyes screwed shut.  
  
Maru doesn’t last long afterward because Ueda goes completely limp, can’t even hold himself steady so he makes do by bracing himself, cleaving to Maru to an almost blending degree. Maru starts to whisper half-formed phrases like he’s just beginning Ueda’s name, hot groans, climbing up the chair as Ueda curls into him. He buries his mouth in Ueda’s bared throat and comes with a long, raw cry, shaking Ueda’s whole chest with it.  
  
The silence thereafter is deafening like it hadn’t been before all this. It’s silent but for the air whooshing in from the vents above and the ghostly echoes of life in the other rooms. Maru all calm and lucid once again has softened and Ueda quite likes the contrast he just tasted. Feels like he’s the only one who knows. It’s so difficult not to think of silly phrases when Maru releases his legs and sprinkles him with a sudden abundance of kisses up his throat, pecks of relief, so many things that are a bit embarrassing to say now. They shouldn’t even fit on this chair together, but they’ve welded closer than Ueda’s ever gotten with anyone.  
  
He thinks of what brought them to this moment and it seems like a satire of some pièce de résistance. Ueda chuckles languidly. He realises immediately afterward that he’s doomed when just the sudden playful squeeze of Maru’s fingers over both his thighs quickens him again.  
  
He tries not to wonder whether they’ll have time for another go. So ridiculous. God, Maru definitely can’t touch him in public anymore. That’s fine; Ueda will start agreeing to more sleepovers now. He’ll let him watch his damn football in between. He doesn’t care. “Guess you’re not keen on wearing those pants for your performance, then?”  
  
“Wanna bet?” Maru simply demands without a beat.  
  
Before he replies, Ueda contemplates quite seriously whether Maru could gain any closure by forcing him into a 2007-era argyle sweater-vest.

 

 


End file.
